Nixon goes up to Oxford
Peter Ackroyd
When he makes a point he leans forward, as though on the verge of toppling over, and then pulls back sharply. When he tells a joke he sways from side to side, wipes the sweat from his forehead in mock horror. When asked a difficult question he will stare — his mouth hanging slightly open — at the questioner, and then half-look over his shoulder. As though, perhaps, someone, somewhere is about to denounce him for lying, or for trying too hard, or just simply for being Richard Nixon.
What is this small, intense man doing at the Oxford Union? He is as out of place as a fruit machine in the Athenaeum, a smart and rather florid figure the face positively glowing with make-up among the college scarves, the plastic anoraks, and the lumpy woollen sweaters. Earnest young men and women sat around in an atmosphere of pious gloom, and Mr Nixon clearly revelled in it as though he were some rich American gent from The Wings of the Dove, coming to reward and humour a group of impecunious Europeans. There were the usual American misunderstandings of the English tone, of course, as though Nixon's version of England had come from shadowy black and white films shown in the White House. 'I believe David Frost was a Cambridge man'. Of Daniel Ellsberg: 'The word is "pinched", isn't it? Well, he pinched the Pentagon papers'.
But the courtly, Yankee role is just the first of many. There is the rueful sage, the voice deepening and quivering slightly: 'Let me philosophise with you people about life here in general'. A rapt pause; the words drunk in; a college scarf is straightened; the elder statesman is sharing his thoughts with what he has already described as 'a politically sophisticated group'. The close-circuit television catches one young man in the act of arranging a serious expression. Another picks his nose. The audience live up to their reputation for sophistication they applaud every answer which Mr Nixon makes. Distant rumours of Watergate and 'honour' bring only a milli-second of a blush to his cheeks, as though he were remembering some untoward incident from infancYA standing ovation at the close. His gestures are interesting. When 117 walks down the aisle of the Union, his steP1,s_ exaggerated almost into a mince as thong" he were about to begin some comic parodY of himself. When he utters words like 'Win. ston Churchill' and 'Brezhnev', his fa° seems to swell and he clenches his fists in an act of homage. When he talks of 'the Pen" ple' he spreads his hands and flattens the air in front of him. It is not immediately de!w whether he is denoting the extent of 'tile people', or the gesture of dominating then'', laying them waste. He uses the same ge sture for the word 'nothing': as in the notion that a man's life is worth 'nothing' onleirss 'involved in a cause bigger than yourse:%i Here his expression is slightly vacant, weir actually, the eyes mirroring the meaninglessness of what he is trying to say. A politician without power is like a01c.. tionary without definitions, the words pour out endlessly and hopelessly: 'I say to yo what we stand for is worth living for...Ihi,avne strong feelings about Jewish emigraun" detente, entente the only way that theY are the same is that they are both Fren.icr words'. The politically sophisticated all'''. ence admire this straightforwardness; the student demonstrators are chanting `1"41°,10 Out! Nixon Out!' an obvious Oxfotti, 'character', of extravagant manner ant absurdly fruity voice, asks a question all011d the future of Britain. I'm glad you aske that question, Mr Character, since tic Nixon must have been expecting it (indeed he has: 'you've got guts!', he tells us). An in fact Mr Character and Mr Nixon are' beneath the skin, not dissimilar creatures ; and they bear more than a fa19 resemblance to the protestors outsidePolitical life is to be measured in platitude; adorned with slogans, judged in terms °f personalities, and wrapped in the jargon 0, 'strong' and 'weak' ('President Ceausescu,' we are informed, 'runs a very tight shiP't The actual lives of 'the people', and the irrational claims and suffering of those lives' play no part in this process; they are somei thing other, beyond the blandishments the American politician coming to til" Oxford Union for a 'civilised' and hYPac' ritical debate, and receiving in turn a gratifyingly cordial reception from th°set young men and women who no doubt wan to `go into' politics themselves. When Mr Nixon left in his bLacic limousine, there were some nasty Wall: and a few policeman arrested a few of 4t1— people'. A drunk, or madman, started 3 raucous chant. Violence and madness seern.6 to follow Nixon wherever he goes, even this quaint Oxford he 'respects' so much; bs. I don't suppose that he notices such thill:s When he escaped from poverty and from 11"( battered little personage in pursuit of Pc'wu and 'a cause bigger than yourself, he Oro pressed all of the violence and mad° e within himself. And now, even if he does se these things around him, haunting him; doubt if he would know what they Mean'.
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